


I Never Like the Moon at Night

by HoWeLLing



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Angst, Blood and Gore, Blood and Violence, Canon, Canon-Typical Violence, Existential Crisis, F/F, M/M, Pre-Canon, Some Humor, Some Plot, Some Romance, light fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-07-12 17:43:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7115965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HoWeLLing/pseuds/HoWeLLing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Soldier: 76 lives in the shadows. He doesn't need acknowledgement or appreciation or notoriety. He is a creature of the night. Lurks behind every darkened corner. Preys on every unsuspecting criminal. This is his life now. Jack Morrison is dead.</p><p>But predation is a double-edged sword, and there are things that go bump in the night. Things even higher on the food chain than a old soldier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bloody Stars

**Author's Note:**

> I am shamelessly blaming this work on every artist on Tumblr, and their ability to drag me into a pit of shipping hell, kicking and screaming the whole way. This is the culmination of all the pain and suffering they have put me through (I love it, never stop) and also slightly the fault of a friend who said, and I quote, "wouldn't it be cool if Jack and Gabriel were both literal monsters?"
> 
> The answer? No. No, it is not cool. It is, apparently, a perfect recipe for angst and violence and sex. Imagine that.

Jack doesn’t expect to wake up.

He remembers blood – too much, drenching his hands and swelling in his throat and pooling warm and slick under his back – and fear and a searing pain in his chest. He blinks up at the night sky, stars colored red by the visor, sluggish and confused. Was it a dream? A nightmare?

He moves each limb experimentally. No pain, but the sticky feeling of blood trapped inside his clothes confuses him all the more. He sits up but still no pain. Never hesitant, he looks. There is a gaping, ragged hole in his jacket, but underneath is smooth and unmarred, the skin sensitive, flinching away from the rough touch of Jack’s gloved fingers.

“How…?”

His voice hangs heavy in the putrid air. The alleyway is empty except for mounds of trash and dirt and rubble. It smells like death. Unsteady, he lurches to his feet. Blood splashes under his boots. Black and sickly in the dark of the night, and _too_ _much_. He touches his chest again, brushing aside the ruins of cloth and looking closer. Still nothing.

Honestly, Jack’s first thought is Angela, but he discards that as soon as it comes to mind. He very much doubts she would be wandering the seedy back alleys of Mexico. Plus, with how much blood Jack’s leaving behind, even Angela wouldn’t have been able to help him. He’s seen her work miracles, but usually with a high-tech lab and team of other gifted medical professionals in tow.

After a few seconds, Jack starts walking.

He… isn’t sure what else to do, but he is a solider if nothing else. And soldiers move forward. Memories of what happened slowly come back to him, but they’re blurry and unclear, like trying to watch a holovid streamed through a damaged lens. He sees a glint of metal in the low light – his rifle. He scoops it up as he goes, and the solid, familiar weight helps unlock some tension from his shoulders.

This whole situation is an unknown. There are few things he hates more.

At the mouth of the alley he runs across the carnage of his earlier battle with Los Muertos. This, at least, he remembers. There are bodies – and body parts – strewn across street, the glow of their tattoos a macabre decoration to the grisly scene. Even through a red tint, the colors are neon bright. Jack is picking his way carefully through the mess when something catches the corner of his eye. It’s an arm, or what’s left of it, the light of the tattoo nearly smothered by flayed skin and muscle. When Jack moves closer he can see splashes of bone.

The damage is strange. Not like anything his rifle can do, even with a helix rocket. He crouches to examine the limb, uses his gun to roll it over with a wet, red squelch. A lump on one end that might have been a hand. Fingers are gone, gnawed to small nubs. There is hardly any flesh left on this side.

The impression of massive, wickedly sharp teeth stand out like a beacon. This side probably had the fat, Jack thinks, distantly. He tries to focus on the here and now, but one of those blurry memories swimming around in his head comes into jagged focus.

( _Huge body, black fur nearly invisible in the night. Teeth, dripping in blood and spit and froth. Snarling, deep and loud and like nothing Jack has ever heard before._

 _Golden eyes gleaming from the dark, crazed and wild and_ hungry _._ )

Jack explodes to his feet with a quiet curse. Goosebumps race up and down his spine, something a lot like panic bubbling hot and fast in the back of throat. He inhales, deep, exhales, sounding straight out of a sci-fi movie through his mask. His breath rattles wet in his mouth, brings the metallic tang of blood dried along his back teeth to the forefront. He is trying not to think about it because – because he _knows_.

Too much blood spilt in that alley. Teeth tearing flesh and shattering bone.

But…

It isn’t _possible_. His mind is telling him one story, but his body tells another.

In the distance, sirens scream into the night, wailing closer and closer. Jack doesn’t move. He turns in a slow circle, examining the rest of the scene. Now that he’s looking for it, he sees the signs all over. The remains of what might be mistaken for a meal by some. Not Jack.

Mindless rage probably looks a lot like this. Chaos and destruction and blood-soaked horror. Eventually, the sirens ring too close, and Jack forces himself to walk away. He focuses on one step at a time. One foot in front of the other, and moves forward.

Like a soldier.


	2. Cracked Conscious

The walk back to his safe house is, blessedly, uneventful. It’s late enough that the streets are empty. Not a single light in any window.

Which is all that seems to be going Jack’s way, tonight. He feels strange. He knows he should be exhausted – _is_ , to a point – but more than anything he’s paranoid. Hyperaware. Heart pounding in his ears, the brush of his undershirt pronounced against his skin. His heavy, booted steps seem to echo in the night. It’s eerie.

Jack has been a soldier for a long, _long_ time. Seen the best and worst of humanity. Sometimes in the span of a couple hours, depending on the battlefield. One skirmish with a gang of backstreet thugs shouldn’t leave him like this, even with whatever attack happened after. Not after everything Jack’s been through. More disoriented – more jumpy – than he cares to admit, Jack walks a little faster. Faster. Faster.

Then he’s running. Sprinting. Doesn’t know why. There is _nothing_ to run _from_. But…

But…

( _Everything had gone according to plan. Los Muertos lay beaten at his feet, their cargo of illegal guns and arms destroyed, and Jack had – for once – made it through without a scratch. One anonymous tip to local authorities later, and he was on his way._

_Until a sound drew his attention. A quiet, faint noise. He snapped his rifle up, at the ready. A small alley branched off the street, shadows dark and thick, impenetrable even to Jack’s visor. He waited, one second. Two seconds. Three. Four. Five._

_Nothing._

_He lowered his weapon, and the shadows lunged.)_

Jack crashes through the door of his safe house like a battering ram. Nearly snaps the old wood off its hinges, but he doesn’t stop. Three long strides and he’s across the tiny flat and in the equally small bathroom. The tile is old and cracked, shifting under Jack’s weight, and something that looks suspiciously like mold has conquered whatever grout remained. Jack tries not to think about as he drops to his knees.

He claws at his faceplate with heavy, clumsy fingers. The protective gloves more hindrance now then boon, but he doesn’t have time to take them off. His stomach lurches, angry and panicked and roiling with something unbearable. Finally, Jack presses the proper buttons, and his mask pops free with a vile hiss. Just in time for Jack to toss it aside and puke into the toilet.

A little bile. A chunk of the protein bar Jack had for breakfast. Blood.

A lot of Blood.

Makes sense. Blood is an irritant. Can’t be digested. Swallow too much and your body throws it right back out. Jack focuses on that as he heaves. His throat, already tender, screams at the new torture, and his chest _aches_. A deep, agonizing pain that makes his lungs spasm and his fingers cling so tight to the aged porcelain that it creaks beseechingly under his grip.

Eventually, it tapers off, and the only sound left in the tiny space is Jack’s heavy breathing. He hesitates, before giving in and removing his visor, too. Colors blend together, details blurring out of focus. He’s not blind, but it’s a close thing.

( _Just one more scar from that day when everything fell apart_.)

Sweat drips down his forehead, stinging his eyes and his dry, cracked lips. Steeling himself, he pushes to his feet. For a second, the room spins and Jack nearly topples right back down. He manages to ground himself with the dilapidated sink, resting his head against the wall for one stabilizing second. The mirror is long gone, only a square of slightly cleaner paint remaining, but Jack prefers it that way.

( _If he looked in the mirror, who would look back?_ )

He rinses his mouth, cringing at the vile mix. A few deep, measured breaths, and Jack starts to feel more controlled. He snaps the visor back into place with careful fingers and tension bleeds from his shoulders as the world moves back into focus. He leaves the face plate on the floor and limps out of the bathroom and straight towards the battered sofa. His little episode over the toilet did his knees no favor.

The couch sags deeply under his weight, springs squealing in dismay, but it holds. Which is more than he can say for himself. His neck twinges as he tips his head back. There are some very dubious stains on the ceiling. A particularly vengeful spring is digging into his lower back. He manages to get his gloves off easily enough, and what little is left of his jacket zipper snaps open with a sharp pull. From there, he only needs to sit up and slip it off his shoulders.

That’s all. Just sit up.

There’s a crack on the ceiling, snug in the corner and snaking up the line of the wall. The more Jack looks, the darker it gets. Deeper. With the red tint of his visor, it looks like a mini portal into hell. Jack would laugh at himself if he had the energy.

All he has to do is sit up.

He closes his eyes, and sinks into the bliss of unconsciousness.


	3. Paper Skin

It takes Jack three days to realize something’s changed.

The fatigue? The soreness? All of it simple and familiar. More intense, sure, but that’s not surprising, after… whatever happened.

( _He scoured the web for anything he could find. Nothing made sense. Plenty of bullshit about supernatural beasts and monsters straight from children’s story books._

_Nothing concrete. Nothing with_ evidence _. Jack is almost convinced he hallucinated the attack, except he has a blood-stained jacket with a gaping hole, hanging in his bathroom._

_That… that is hard to argue with._ )

After the incident in the alley, Jack’s kept his head down and his ears open, very pointedly not thinking about the mysterious attack while waiting for the faintest hint that the police have caught his scent. _La Masacre de la Luna Llena_ – the Full Moon Massacre – as coined by the locals, has brought droves of media upon the small town. Every single one of them is trying to make it big by breaking this story, and the last thing Jack needs is to be recognized by some overzealous twenty-something trying to “make a difference”.

Being dead only affords a man so much anonymity.

Jack stands in the skeletal remains of the kitchen, cup of instant coffee in one hand, tablet in the other. There haven’t been any notable leads or investigations made into the case, and Jack can’t help but snort at some of the more outlandish theories. He skims through a few more pages, searching for anyone trying to tie Soldier: 76 to the bloodbath.

There are a few outliers, but the general consensus is that 76 is probably not a cannibal.

Better than Jack expected, honestly. He isn’t sure whether to be relieved or disgusted that the mo- animal covered his tracks so well.

He drains his coffee with a grimace. He’s been making it too strong, lately, the taste a bitter blast against his tongue. The smell makes his eyes water. He drinks it because beggars can’t be choosers, but makes a note to do better tomorrow. He drops the cup in the sink, before making his way to the living room. The couch squeals its usual complaints when he settles down, but he manages to avoid the worst of the errant springs. The global news is quiet. Satisfied, Jack drops his tablet on the coffee table and scoops up his bag of equipment.

For half a second, he thinks about putting it on the table, too, but the time-worn wood looks like it can barely hold his tablet up, let alone the not inconsiderable weight of his gear. He drops the bag on the couch and starts to dig through his equipment. Three days is long enough. Jack needs to get back out there before Los Muertos takes advantage of the chaos.

The extra jacket doesn’t match his usual color scheme – black where there should be stripes of blue and red – but the large 76 stitched in the back is more than recognizable. He’s running low on biotic emitters, but ammo is alright. Rations are nearly gone.

( _He’s been ravenous. A deep, gnawing pit of constant_ need _sitting low in his stomach like a stone. Jack has never experienced anything like it, not even in during the super soldier enhancement program, where there was the very real possibility he ate enough meat to equal a grown cow in one sitting._

_It is… Jack doesn’t think about it._ )

He pulls out the case with his spare visor, cracking it open just to check.

Jack’s been lucky so far, managing to avoid any serious damage or issues with his main, but he has no misconceptions. Without this very specific, and infuriatingly _delicate_ , piece of machinery, Jack is useless. He puts the case back at the bottom of the bag, careful to bury it under medical supplies and biotic mines until not an inch of the metal is visible.

It happens then, as he pulls his hand away.

There is all kinds of crap in the bag, broken equipment and shattered gear. Jack can’t tell which takes a chunk out of him, but it gets him good. Catching the divot between knuckles, tearing worn skin like a hot knife through butter. He takes one look at the damage and curses.

Wide, deep, and bleeding like a stuck pig. Of course.

He grabs a nearby towel and barely hesitates before staunching the blood-flow. The towel is closer to diseased than most rats, but Jack’s enhanced immune system isn’t just for show. There are few things in the world that could give him an infection, and not a one can be found outside a chemical weapons lab.

Jack lurches to his feet, hand held awkwardly to his chest. The towel, a pale, faded beige, starts to show hints of pink and Jack increases the pressure. Behind him, the couch wails blatant relief, cushions inflating with a desperate, gasping _wheeze_. The sound literally sets Jack’s teeth on edge, a tangible blade digging into his ears. He glares at the couch as he shuffles away.

The naked fluorescent lights in the bathroom are more reminiscent of something found in a ratty subway than an apartment, and Jack is grateful once again for his visor as it cuts the glare. The doors on the sink cabinet are long gone and Jack barely has to bend down to snatch the small first aid kit nestled under the pipes.

He pops it open and grabs a loose square of gauze. He dumps the dirty towel in the sink, moves quickly to reapply pressure.

Stops. Stares.

Carefully, he sets the gauze aside and prods the knuckle. His finger comes away red.

After a moment, he grabs the towel and wipes away the rest of the blood. The skin is pale and veined. There is a faint line nestled between his knuckles, probably a faint pink but colored sharp red by the hue of Jack’s visor.

As Jack watches, the mark grows smaller. Fainter. Thinner.

Gone.

Jack drops the towel in the sink, pivots sharply on his heel, and marches out the door.

He doesn’t go out that night.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading as much I enjoyed writing, and please feel free to point out any mistakes or errors. I don't have a beta and am probably the person least qualified to edit my own writing.


End file.
